handed Natasha Joyce a card. ‘If you do remember anything else . . .’
Natasha took the card, looked at it, turned it over. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, pushed herself away from the edge of the sink and started toward the kitchen door.
Miller and Roth got up, followed her to the front.
Miller paused in the half-open doorway. ‘I understand,’ he said quietly. ‘I might not have kids, but I understand.’
Natasha nodded, tried to smile though there were tears in her eyes. There was a moment of gratitude in her expression, and then it was gone.
Miller and Roth made their way out toward the stairwell. Natasha watched them go - all the way down the steps and out of sight.
Chloe appeared in her bedroom doorway as she locked the front door.
‘Who was that, Mommy?’
Natasha fingertipped away her tears. ‘No-one sweetie . . . just no-one at all . . .’
Chloe shrugged, turned, disappeared.
Natasha Joyce stood there for a while, her heart heavy, a sense of coolness around her, and realized that she knew almost nothing of what had ultimately happened to Darryl King, father of her child.
EIGHT
They stopped to get coffee on the way back to the Second. Miller knew they were killing time until lunch. He wanted to see Marilyn Hemmings. He wanted the autopsy results. He wanted to pursue the fact that Natasha Joyce had seen Catherine Sheridan five years before.
Back at the precinct he stood motionless at the window of the office. Roth was down the corridor fetching a soda. Right hand wall now carried two corkboards - large things, maybe six by four - and on them were pinned photos of all four victims, their respective houses and apartments, a map of the area covering the crime scenes, notes and reminders and the yellow delivery order bearing the number 315 3477.
Roth came in, handed a can to Miller.
‘The fucking number,’ Miller said. ‘I can’t think . . .’
Roth stood for a moment. He sipped Sprite noisily. Kind of tilted his head sideways. ‘Seven numbers,’ he said. ‘Coordinates for something?’
‘What do you know about coordinates?’
Roth shrugged. ‘Nothing.’
‘Same here.’
‘What about backwards . . . 7743513?’
Miller frowned, thinking. ‘Stick a zero before it and you’ve got a case number,’ he said. ‘The 077 prefix . . . they’re all three-three-two sequences with the same prefix, right? Try it on the system.’
Roth set his can down on the edge of the desk, fired up the computer. They waited, anticipatory like kids at Christmas. Punched in the number. Waited some more. CPU whirred furiously.
Miller was at the window. The sky was white and featureless. Fleeting thoughts through his mind: Kind of a life is this, for God’s sake? Chasing people who do this kind of shit to other people.
‘Fuckin’-A,’ Roth said.
‘What you got?’ Miller asked.
‘Our friend again . . . our very interesting friend. Darryl Eric King, born June 14th, 1974, arrested Thursday, August 9th, 2001 for possession of cocaine. Case number 077-435- 13.’
‘You’re fuckin’ kidding!’
Roth shook his head. ‘Serious as it gets. Look . . . Darryl King . . .’ He shifted back so Miller could see the screen more clearly. ‘Case number 077-435-13. Darryl Eric King.’
Miller was silent for a moment, his words lost amidst his disbelief. ‘This I cannot get my head around,’ he said quietly. ‘This is too much altogether.’ Again he paused for a moment, shaking his head, scanning the screen trying to comprehend the significance of what he was looking at. ‘Where was it?’ he eventually asked.
‘Seventh Precinct.’
‘Who arrested him?’
‘Arresting Officer was one Sergeant Michael McCullough . . . you know him?’
Miller shook his head. ‘What happened?’
Roth clicked pages. ‘Released the same day, eight hours later. No formal charge.’
Miller frowned. ‘How can there have been no formal charge? He was arrested with . . . how much?’
‘Three grams . . .
Natasha took the card, looked at it, turned it over. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, pushed herself away from the edge of the sink and started toward the kitchen door.
Miller and Roth got up, followed her to the front.
Miller paused in the half-open doorway. ‘I understand,’ he said quietly. ‘I might not have kids, but I understand.’
Natasha nodded, tried to smile though there were tears in her eyes. There was a moment of gratitude in her expression, and then it was gone.
Miller and Roth made their way out toward the stairwell. Natasha watched them go - all the way down the steps and out of sight.
Chloe appeared in her bedroom doorway as she locked the front door.
‘Who was that, Mommy?’
Natasha fingertipped away her tears. ‘No-one sweetie . . . just no-one at all . . .’
Chloe shrugged, turned, disappeared.
Natasha Joyce stood there for a while, her heart heavy, a sense of coolness around her, and realized that she knew almost nothing of what had ultimately happened to Darryl King, father of her child.
EIGHT
They stopped to get coffee on the way back to the Second. Miller knew they were killing time until lunch. He wanted to see Marilyn Hemmings. He wanted the autopsy results. He wanted to pursue the fact that Natasha Joyce had seen Catherine Sheridan five years before.
Back at the precinct he stood motionless at the window of the office. Roth was down the corridor fetching a soda. Right hand wall now carried two corkboards - large things, maybe six by four - and on them were pinned photos of all four victims, their respective houses and apartments, a map of the area covering the crime scenes, notes and reminders and the yellow delivery order bearing the number 315 3477.
Roth came in, handed a can to Miller.
‘The fucking number,’ Miller said. ‘I can’t think . . .’
Roth stood for a moment. He sipped Sprite noisily. Kind of tilted his head sideways. ‘Seven numbers,’ he said. ‘Coordinates for something?’
‘What do you know about coordinates?’
Roth shrugged. ‘Nothing.’
‘Same here.’
‘What about backwards . . . 7743513?’
Miller frowned, thinking. ‘Stick a zero before it and you’ve got a case number,’ he said. ‘The 077 prefix . . . they’re all three-three-two sequences with the same prefix, right? Try it on the system.’
Roth set his can down on the edge of the desk, fired up the computer. They waited, anticipatory like kids at Christmas. Punched in the number. Waited some more. CPU whirred furiously.
Miller was at the window. The sky was white and featureless. Fleeting thoughts through his mind: Kind of a life is this, for God’s sake? Chasing people who do this kind of shit to other people.
‘Fuckin’-A,’ Roth said.
‘What you got?’ Miller asked.
‘Our friend again . . . our very interesting friend. Darryl Eric King, born June 14th, 1974, arrested Thursday, August 9th, 2001 for possession of cocaine. Case number 077-435- 13.’
‘You’re fuckin’ kidding!’
Roth shook his head. ‘Serious as it gets. Look . . . Darryl King . . .’ He shifted back so Miller could see the screen more clearly. ‘Case number 077-435-13. Darryl Eric King.’
Miller was silent for a moment, his words lost amidst his disbelief. ‘This I cannot get my head around,’ he said quietly. ‘This is too much altogether.’ Again he paused for a moment, shaking his head, scanning the screen trying to comprehend the significance of what he was looking at. ‘Where was it?’ he eventually asked.
‘Seventh Precinct.’
‘Who arrested him?’
‘Arresting Officer was one Sergeant Michael McCullough . . . you know him?’
Miller shook his head. ‘What happened?’
Roth clicked pages. ‘Released the same day, eight hours later. No formal charge.’
Miller frowned. ‘How can there have been no formal charge? He was arrested with . . . how much?’
‘Three grams . . .
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